That's A Moray
by L J Groundwater
Summary: Someone dear to Alan pays an unexpected visit. Meantime Alan takes on a case for Shirley involving drug laws, and Brad and Lori try and help a client whose estranged wife has found a unique way to get his attention.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Massachusetts law has changed since this story was begun. However, I prefer to keep _Boston Legal_ in its original time period, in which case this is still legally correct. Please note all facts listed are researched to the best of my ability; I do not like to "guess" how things work! None of this belongs to me—well, none of the characters, nor the show_ Boston Legal_. The original characters are mine, as is the text, and the story concept. Please read and let me know what you think!

* BL * BL * BL *

"Alan, your lunch has arrived."

Alan Shore gave his assistant, Melissa Hughes, a questioning look. "What?" he asked.

"Your lunch is here," she said again, clearly annoyed. "I could have ordered for you if you'd told me."

But Alan ignored the tone, still bewildered. "I didn't order any lunch, Melissa," he said.

Melissa shrugged and looked at the piece of paper she was holding. "I'm sorry, Alan, but it says it right here: Alan Shore. One helping of heaped spaghetti with the flat noodles, and five meatballs—"

"One for each corner of the valley," Alan recited with her, standing up and heading quickly toward the door, and as he passed Melissa another voice joined in from the hallway, "and one for the top of the mountain!"

"Beppe!" cried Alan joyfully, and with a laugh he pulled a waiting small, older gentleman into an affectionate hug.

The visitor smiled warmly as Alan drew the man into his office. "_Bambino!_ You think I would forget you favorite, eh?"

"Never, Beppe, never!" Alan smiled widely. "You didn't really bring me fettuccine, though, did you?" he asked, looking around for the meal. "I've got quite enough meat on my bones already…"

Beppe laughed. "Of course I did—with the five meatballs, and your favorite bread."

"There's always room for bread!" the two of them announced, laughing.

Melissa appeared in the doorway with a large picnic basket. "Alan, what's…?"

Still caught up in his delight, Alan looked at his assistant. "Melissa, if I have any lunch meetings today, please cancel them." He looked at the older man. "Beppe, you're staying?"

"If you wanna me to stay, of course!"

"I would be honored," Alan answered. "Is there enough for three?" he asked Beppe, who nodded. "Of course—there's probably enough for six. Melissa, please go find Denny and ask him to come here. Then find three table settings and spread them in the conference room." He looked at Beppe. "There's wine, isn't there." It was a statement; he knew there would be.

"Of course!"

"And three glasses," Alan added to Melissa.

Shaking her head, Melissa disappeared. "Beppe, what brings you here?" Alan asked, gesturing for the man to sit down. "Boylston Street is a long way from Dedham."

"This is true. But not so long to excuse that you no visit us, _bambino_," he scolded, taking a spot on the sofa.

Alan nodded. "You're right. And I'm sorry. I'm very busy with the practice of law, and other distractions. And Dedham, aside from occasional fine people like you and your lovely wife Teresa, doesn't hold very fond memories for me."

Beppe nodded regretfully. "Ah, you still remember, eh?"

"It's very hard to forget," Alan admitted.

Denny Crane, a founding partner of Crane, Poole and Schmidt, appeared in the doorway. "What's this about an old man and lunch?"

"Denny!" Alan stood up and brought him to the sofa. "Denny, I want you to meet a very dear old friend of mine, Beppe Marino."

The older man stood up and extended his hand. Denny nodded and shook it. "A pleasure," Denny said.

"I spent _countless_ hours at Beppe's house when I was a boy, eating more than my fair share of his wife's _tremendous_ cooking."

Beppe laughed as the men all sat down. "This one," he said to Denny, pointing at Alan, "he was always hunting around for one more meatball."

Alan laughed. "Beppe and Teresa's place was my second home," he said. With a knowing look, at the older man, he added, "Sometimes my first."

"You fit right in with the rest of the family, eh, _bambino?"_ Beppe said, reaching to pat Alan's knee affectionately.

"I was always welcome with your horde," Alan agreed. "Unless I was looking to steal the last piece of hot bread."

"Then, you have to fight everyone else at the table!"

The pair laughed happily. Denny smiled, took in his friend's delight, and nodded. "So, you've brought some of that for us all to share?"

"_Assolutamente,"_ Beppe replied. "Alan's favorite childhood dish, and something _new _for you, _bambino perduto,"_ he said with a nod to Alan.

"What could that be?" Alan asked with interest.

"_Capitone arrosto._ You will love it, eh?"

Alan's eyes lit up at the delightful sounds of the language. He gave him a questioning look as he tried to translate. "Roast…?" He shook his head.

"Eel. Is _beautiful._"

Alan's smile turned forced, but game. "Eel?" he asked. "Really, Beppe?"

"Sure!" the little Italian said. "Is just _pesce_—fish, eh? You a big boy now—you can have the grown-up food, no?"

Alan laughed weakly and nodded, swallowing. "All right. But I _must_ have my flat noodles and meatballs first."

Beppe laughed, then insisted that they eat. They headed down to the conference room and Beppe served the food while Alan poured the wine. Alan praised the cooking vigorously, and Beppe told Denny stories of Alan's many visits to his home. Eventually, Alan looked at his old friend and asked, "Beppe, what brings you here?"

Beppe raised his eyebrows. "Is not obvious?" he asked. "I bring you lunch!"

"I know," Alan answered, "and I am enjoying it immensely. But you didn't come from Dedham unannounced just to bring me fettuccine and wine and talk over old times." He put down his fork and looked the older man in the eye. "Beppe. What's going on?"

Beppe squirmed at Alan's directness. "Is… is nothing, _bambino_. I don't want to bother you with anything. Teresa and I, we've just been thinking about you, is all. She decided she miss cooking for you, eh?"

But Alan didn't buy it. "Beppe," he said again, his voice lower, even more serious, "what's going on."

"We… we have some trouble," Beppe said reluctantly.

"What kind of trouble?" Alan asked, glancing at Denny.

Beppe shrugged. "You know Teresa's had the _ristorante_ for about a year now," he said.

"Yes," Alan said, prompting him on. "It's been very successful, you said."

"Well, has all been good, very nice. Good _patroni_, nice location. She even got a good review in the _Boston Globe,_ so business, it's been bigger. People coming out from the city just to try her recipes. Very nice, eh?"

Alan nodded. "Very nice," he agreed. "But…?"

"But…" Beppe hesitated. Alan and Denny exchanged looks, then Alan turned his penetrating gaze on his friend. "But… well, a couple of months ago Teresa got an offer for the business."

"An offer?" Alan repeated.

"Someone wanted to buy the _ristorante,"_ the older man explained. "The money was good, _very_ good. But Teresa, she no want to sell. We opened the _ristorante_ to stay busy, to meet our friends, to be part of the community, eh?"

Alan nodded. "So you said no."

"So we say no," Beppe confirmed. He shrugged. "A couple of weeks later, the man, he come back, makes the offer again. This time he make it bigger. Teresa, she still say no. We have enough money, we want happiness, yes? So she say _grazie,_ no _grazie,_ and stay in business." He shrugged. "So we think."

"So you think?" Denny echoed.

Beppe nodded. "After that, things, they start getting funny. We have a broken window. We have a power cut. Someone breaks in and smashes some of the dishes. Last night, somebody painted graffiti on the side of the building."

"Someone isn't very happy about you being there," Alan observed. "Beppe, who made the offers to buy you and Teresa out?"

"His name is Fil Russo. He gave Teresa his business card. He said his boss was very, very interested in the building."

"Do you think the offers and the vandalism are connected?" Denny asked.

Beppe shrugged. "I don't know," he answered. "I just know that my Teresa, she's getting scared."

"Have you called the police?" Alan queried.

"_Si,_ we tell them, but they say there are probably kids around, and we should get a burglar alarm to scare them away. We have to catch them."

Alan leaned forward, put his hand on top of Beppe's, and squeezed encouragingly. "I'm glad you came to me, Beppe," he said. "You know I'll do everything I can to help. Did Teresa keep the business card?"

"_Si."_

"Get that card to me, Beppe; I'll start looking into this right away."

"Ah, Alan, _grazie._ I told Teresa our _bambino perduto_ could help." He clapped his hand on top of Alan's. "She will feel much better knowing you are taking care of this for us."

"I don't know what I can do, Beppe. For now I'm just looking. But tell Teresa I'll make it a top priority, okay?"

"_Si. Si, bambino. _Ah, you are a good boy."

Alan smiled fondly at the old man. "Only because of you," he said.

"No," Beppe answered, shaking his head; "you were already a good boy when we met you." He stood up. "I gotta go," he said. "I'm gonna leave you in peace, eh?"

Alan and Denny stood up. Beppe took Alan by the shoulders and reached up to kiss each of his cheeks. "Alan, you behave, eh?"

Alan smiled and nodded toward Denny. "Denny makes sure I do," he said.

"Don't blame _me!"_ Denny protested. "I try to make him get a bit of _fun_ out of life!"

Beppe laughed. "Good. This one, he needs to laugh more." Then he squeezed Alan's hands, said his goodbyes, and departed.

"I'm worried, Denny," Alan said after Beppe had gone. "Whatever's happening at Teresa's restaurant, it doesn't sound good."

"What do you _think_ is happening?"

"I'm not sure. I'll have to wait to get the business card that Russo character gave Teresa." He shook his head. "But I don't like the sound of it."

"What's that he kept calling you—_bambino prosciutto_…?"

"_Perduto,"_ Alan corrected._ "Bambino perduto."_

"That's it," Denny confirmed. "What _is_ that?"

"It means lost child," Alan answered. "Beppe and Teresa called me that when I was growing up."

Denny frowned. "What for?"

Alan looked at the table with the remnants of the lovely meal his friend had brought, worried about what might be happening to Beppe and Teresa now, and remembered his time at their table as a boy. "Because I always showed up on their doorstep when I had no place to go," he said, becoming thoughtful. "And they always took me in like a lost child come home."

His pensiveness was interrupted when the conference room door opened and name partner Shirley Schmidt came in. "This looks cozy," she said, nodding toward the spread on the table. "Did I miss the memo about Bring A Small Restaurant To Work Day?"

Alan smiled gently, amused. "Just a bit of a reunion with an old friend. There's plenty left over; would you care for some—"

"Is that _capitone arrosto?"_ Shirley interrupted, coming closer to the table. "It looks _wonderful!"_

Alan smiled wanly. "You like… eel?" he asked.

"Love it. And since your offer was so generous, and I haven't had lunch yet, I'll be taking some back to my office with me later. But that's not why I came in here. Alan, I need you to meet the client in my office. She has a drug problem."

"No, thank you," Alan refused flatly, his distaste transparent.

"Not the kind of drug problem you'd think. We need your propensity to get judges to go outside the law here."

Alan raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "To help a drug addict."

"She's not an addict. I'll let her explain."

Alan paused to absorb the information, then nodded. "Much more interesting," he said. "Lead on."

Shirley turned to leave, knowing Alan would follow. "Denny, don't eat all the _capitone_; I'll be expecting some to be waiting for me after this meeting."

Denny shrugged and then nodded, shook his head with a smile when Alan looked back at the dish and shivered, then picked up his glass, and drank his wine.

* BL * BL * BL *

"Alan Shore, this is Patricia Harris," Shirley introduced as they walked back into her office.

The twenty-something lady was sitting on the sofa. Alan noticed the colorful scarf she wore on her head, completely covering her scalp, offered a professional smile and shook her hand, then sat in the chair across from her and crossed his legs as Shirley took her place beside her. "Patricia," he greeted.

"Alan is the one lawyer I think might be able to get you what you want here, Patricia," Shirley explained.

"That would be miraculous," Patricia said. "I came to Crane, Poole and Schmidt because of your reputation for… well… accomplishing impossible things."

"I like to call them dares," Alan told her. "What do _you_ dare us to do, Patricia?"

"Mr. Shore, I have terminal brain cancer." Alan's head spun at the blunt admission of this young woman, but she didn't pause in her story to let him catch his breath. "I've done everything I can legally, but the truth is, my time is coming. Marijuana has been known to help people deal with the sickness that comes with chemotherapy. Not to mention possibly promoting the death of cancer cells in the brain." Alan nodded. "I want to use it. I don't think it will change the outcome, but it could help slow things down, to give me more time to put my affairs in order. To give me more time to say goodbye. The problem is, I can't buy marijuana in Massachusetts without getting arrested. And I don't want to waste the precious time I have left in the courts every time I get picked up."

"You realize that other states do have medical marijuana laws where you wouldn't have to go through this," Alan said.

"I know," Patricia said. "But I'm not delusional, Mr. Shore; I know my time on earth is limited." Again, Alan nodded gravely. "I want to stay in Massachusetts. And I want to grow marijuana in my home. I don't want to go to jail. I'm already in Hell; jail would be like a double punishment."

Alan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "I'll take care of it for you," he said.

Patricia looked from him to Shirley, and then back again. "Just like that?" she said. "You can do this just like that?"

"Well, it gets a _little _more complicated," Alan replied. "We'll need to go before the judge: I'll get you to testify, we'll ask for you to be excused from any penalties you may have already incurred, and then I'll explain why you need the marijuana and we'll be done with it."

Patricia smiled in disbelief. "And that's it? You can guarantee that?"

Alan placed a hand on Patricia's arm. "You'll get what you want. I promise you."

Patricia gripped Alan's hand gratefully. "Oh, Mr. Shore, you don't know what this means to me," she said. To Alan, her eyes seemed suspiciously bright. "I don't know what to say."

Alan smiled reassuringly. "Don't say anything. Just know that you're going to get what you need."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Alan, I appreciate you coming on board so enthusiastically with this case, but how can you promise Patricia Harris that you'll be successful?" Shirley asked as she followed Alan back into his office.

Alan just blinked at her. "Because I will be," he said simply. He sat down behind his desk.

"I brought you in because I have the greatest confidence in your abilities to do this—and I'm glad you share that—but to _guarantee—_"

"She'll get the marijuana she needs, Shirley," Alan replied firmly. Then he fixed her with a look that told her more than she wanted to know. "One way or the other."

"What does that mean, Alan?" Shirley asked gravely.

Alan's answer was direct, and equally serious. "Shirley, I will never lie to you, so don't ask that question unless you're absolutely certain you want the answer."

His eyes and Shirley's stayed locked for a moment, then she turned and walked out of his office.


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing. The story is mine, the original characters and text are mine… but I own nothing that comes from David E. Kelley. Dang.

* BL * BL * BL *

Paul Lewiston caught up with Brad Chase in the hallway. "You have a new case to handle, Brad," the partner said to the younger man.

Brad looked at Paul as he continued toward the library. "I always have a new case to handle," he quipped.

"You might find this one a little different," Paul said.

Brad stopped. "Different? How?"

"Thomas Bishop is in my office."

"Who's Thomas Bishop?"

"The CEO of one of our biggest corporate clients. And probably the first man in fifty years to be arrested for having an affair."

* BL * BL * BL *

Thomas Bishop, a man in his forties, was pacing the office, his pent-up frustration and fear evident in every step. "Marion and I don't love each other any more," he explained, still walking, to Brad and Paul. "But this is a no-fault state and divorce would have been devastating to me financially. So I started looking elsewhere. I knew she would be humiliated if word of an affair got out, so I kept it quiet—I thought." He stopped finally, looked at the lawyers. "I knew she suspected something was going on, but I didn't think she could substantiate it. I certainly didn't think she cared. And I never expected to be _arrested!"_

"What have you been charged with?" Brad asked.

It was Paul who answered. "Massachusetts General Law Section 14 still declares adultery as illegal. Apparently Mrs. Bishop discovered this archaic law that has never been removed from the books and insisted on an arrest."

"And the police went along with this?" Brad said, surprised.

"They didn't have any choice," Paul declared. "It's a _law_." He glanced at Bishop, who was still moving quickly back and forth. "And his wife won't drop the charges."

"She can't do this to me!" Bishop burst.

"Mr. Bishop, I promise we'll do the best we can for you," Brad said. He turned to Paul. "You want _me_ on this?"

"Take Lori and get it done."

"I could go to jail," Bishop said. "She told me I could go to _jail!"_

Paul tried to settle him. "Now calm down, Tom; we're going to do everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen." He turned back to Brad and lowered his voice. "Make sure this goes away. _Now."_

* BL * BL * BL *

"It's one of those things that leaves me speechless, Denny," Alan admitted later in his office. "That someone so young can be so… accepting of an early death."

"You've always said you're sure _you'll_ go early," Denny countered.

"I know, but I expect _my _untimely demise will be deserved—and unexpected. But for people like Patricia Harris… she knows what she has to look forward to, Denny… and it's not pretty." Alan shook his head. "I'm not sure I could do that."

"That's what _I'm_ looking at, Alan," Denny said suddenly. "If this... Mad Cow gets to me. That's what I'm looking at."

Alan felt his throat constrict. He forced himself to swallow. "You won't have an early death, Denny. You're already seventy-five years old. Your Mad Cow will move so slowly you'll be dead of natural causes before it has a chance to do anything too nasty to you."

"Do you think so?" Denny asked hopefully.

"I know so."

"You make sure it does."

"I promise."

Denny changed the subject. "Shirley took the rest of the eel," he said. "You missed out."

Alan snorted a short laugh and waved his hand dismissively. "She's welcome to it," he said.

"It was beautiful! Why didn't you have any?" Denny asked.

"I can't eat eel, Denny," Alan answered, shaking his head. "The thought of it just leaves me feeling… icky."

"It's just fish!" Denny persisted.

"I _know_ it's just fish," Alan said. "But eels remind me too much of snakes. And I don't eat snake."

"It tastes like chicken," Denny said.

"What?"

"Snake. Tastes like chicken."

Alan shook his head. "I don't want to know. Denny, I'm worried about Teresa and Beppe. I don't like what's happening at their restaurant."

"Well, then, find out what's going on."

"Those people are very important to me," Alan went on. "I haven't kept in touch very well, but I haven't ever forgotten them."

"Let's have dinner there this week," Denny suggested suddenly.

"Really, Denny?"

Denny smiled at how excited his friend sounded. "Sure."

"Not tonight—I'm stuffed from lunch."

Denny patted his belly. "Me, too. And I'm planning on having sex tonight."

"Another night alone, I see." Denny made a face. Alan stood up. "I'd better get back to work. If I want to help Patricia Harris _and_ Beppe, I'm going to need to stay on my toes."

* BL * BL * BL *

"She was a smart lady," Lori Coulson said when Brad explained the case they'd been handed to her. "I knew the law against adultery was on the books… but I've never seen anyone picked up for it."

Brad shook his head as he paced back and forth in front of her desk. "You should have heard him—so indignant about the whole thing," he said.

"Well, it's pretty unusual, Brad," Lori said. "Who'd think they'd be arrested for having an affair?"

"I'm not the right person for this case," Brad blurted out.

"Why not?"

"Because I think he _should_ go to jail."

"_You do?"_ Lori said, astonished.

"There's a reason infidelity is illegal, Lori. Massachusetts just happens to still have a moral code. Thomas Bishop cheated on his wife. The only reason he didn't divorce her was because he wanted to protect his precious cash. Guys like that have no backbone and no ethics. He belongs behind bars."

Lori's jaw dropped as she let out an incredulous laugh. "Are you serious? I'm not defending his actions either, but do you really think he belongs behind bars with drug dealers and child molesters?"

"I'm saying that when you make a promise you have to stick to it, and if you can't, you get out honorably and you take your punches. Thomas Bishop wanted to have his cake and eat it, too."

Lori considered, shrugged. "I'm still not sure, Brad. This archaic law—"

"He should go to jail, or he should man up and give his wife what she deserves."

Lori pursed her lips. "I agree," she admitted. "But we're not on that side of the case."

"That's a shame," Brad said, with more than a touch of venom in his voice.

"And the deposition is tomorrow?" Lori confirmed.

"That's right."

"I'd better handle it."

"What? Why you?"

"Because the way you're feeling, you're likely to give away the store, and get him put behind bars for ten years."

"The maximum is three," Brad corrected. "And maybe he deserves it."

"Maybe he does," Lori agreed. "But it's our job to get her to drop the charges, and then maybe negotiate a favorable settlement to put all this behind them. And somehow I don't think you're capable of that at the moment." She frowned. "So it's my job to bring all this to a close."

* BL * BL * BL *

"No one wants to be the bad guy here, Mr. Shore," said the Assistant District Attorney when Alan visited him in his office later that day. "We're just as anxious as you are to make this go away."

"And yet you haven't dropped the charges," Alan said, crossing his legs. "My client still faces six months in jail. She doesn't have six months to spare, Mr. Ginsberg."

Frank Ginsberg sighed. "If we can get an understanding from her that she _cannot_ possess or use cannabis then I'm happy to let it go completely. I'm not interested in pushing this. But this isn't the first time she's been caught; she has two prior arrests for this—we've been very lenient with her."

"Very generous, considering she's dying. I would think that's harsh enough. I want you to drop this charge, and I want an assurance that she will be left alone for the rest of her short time on earth."

"I can't do that," Ginsberg said, shaking his head. "I can recommend the judge be lenient, but without an assurance that she'll comply in the future, I can't drop it."

"You're asking for lip service."

"Maybe. But we have to have it. And the next time, because then there_ will be_ a next time, we'll be forced to be more heavy-handed. Much as it pains me to say it, and it does, I can't drop this for nothing."

"Your pain will only be worsened when we meet in court tomorrow," Alan said. He stood up. "I don't like it when people ask my clients to lie. She won't tell you it will never happen again, Mr. Ginsberg, because it will. And it will happen legally. Be ready for me in court. I'll be ready for you."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Smoking or possessing marijuana is against the law, Mr. Shore," Judge Clark Brown reminded Alan as he stood before the court the next day.

"That's true, Judge, but in some states it's not if you have the proper fatal disease, and in this case my client has one of those."

"You are not in _some states,_ Counselor. You are in _Massachusetts!"_

"Clarification really not necessary, Your Honor, unless you're saying it to remind yourself." The gavel came down hard on the bench. "If you suffer from memory loss, I think you'll find that marijuana is believed to help slow down the progression of that as well—" _BANG._

Judge Brown frowned as Alan smiled at him from the other side of the bench. _"Outrageous!"_ spluttered Brown.

Alan frowned. "You're right, Judge. It _is _outrageous." He gestured toward Patricia. "It's outrageous that this beautiful young woman is dying of an insidious disease, and not only can't we stop it, but we can't have the decency to allow her one thing she needs to help make this immeasurably difficult time a little easier for her, even though seventeen other states would do that. Massachusetts has lost its heart."

Again, the gavel came down hard.

"I'm sorry; I was mistaken," Alan amended. "Apparently, Massachusetts hasn't had a heart since the glow from the Red Sox World Series victory passed."

_Bang._

"Or since, perhaps, Mitt was our governor and refused to allow publication of an anti-bullying guide for teenagers because it discouraged the harassment of bisexual and transgender students."

_Bang, bang._

"Your Honor," said Assistant District Attorney Frank Ginsberg, "the law here is black and white. Politics has no place here. "

Alan laughed out loud. "Says the man who is _dying_ to make the move to the governor's mansion, and chooses to stand before the court on a topic that is so politically charged that it makes the ballot every few years, and having a stand on it can make or break a candidate…"

"Your client broke the law and is asking the courts to ignore it—and to condone her doing it over and over again."

"For the whole twelve months she has left?" Alan retorted, the snorted laugh he offered not quite concealing his rising temper. He turned his attention back to the bench. "Your Honor, there's an argument to be made here, and before Mr. Ginsberg declares my client a hippy pothead, I'd like to have the opportunity to make it to you."

Judge Brown ran his eyes haughtily over Alan Shore, then appraisingly over Patricia Harris, who was sitting quietly at the table. She raised her eyes to him not with defiance, but with desperation.

"Hmf," Brown said finally. "Tomorrow. Two o'clock. I want to hear from the defendant. And I don't want any of your courtroom theatrics, Mr. Shore. If you come in here with love beads and paisley pants and peace signs, I'll charge you with contempt. Do you understand?"

Alan raised his eyebrows in genuine amusement and mock surprise. "Groovy," he answered, deadpan.

"_Shocking,"_ the judge declared. He stood up and walked away.

Alan turned smoothly to Ginsberg as the ADA prepared to leave. "We'll see you tomorrow, then." He held up two fingers in a V. "Peace out."

"The offer still stands," Ginsberg said gruffly, shaking his head as he looked at Alan and Patricia.

"No thanks," Alan replied. Patricia nodded in agreement. Ginsberg offered a sound of disgust in return and departed. Alan turned back to Patricia and smiled.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Now we get you ready to win."


	3. Chapter 3

I still own nothing but my own characters and storyline. LOVE David E. Kelley for this show…

* BL * BL * BL *

"Fil Russo works for Vincent del Sarto," Alan announced as he came into Denny's office and sat down at the desk across from his friend.

"Del Sarto," Denny repeated, thinking. "Isn't he—"

"One of the biggest organized crime figures in Massachusetts since Whitey Bulger? Allegedly. Shakedowns, drug deals, back-street murders, the whole shebang."

"What does Beppe have that he wants?" Denny asked.

"Prime real estate, I'm guessing. I certainly don't think Beppe and Teresa are heading up a gambling operation or running drugs out the back of the restaurant."

"So he's into real estate now?" Denny said. He shook his head. "That doesn't sound like him."

"A lot of organized crime operations have legitimate businesses as well, Denny," Alan reminded him. "It's how they launder their proceeds. Most people never know when they're doing business with them."

"And Del Sarto has a real estate office?"

Alan shook his head. "I don't know. I'm still working on that. It's just more than a little disturbing to me that he's got his eyes on the Marinos."

Denny nodded as Shirley appeared in the doorway. "Good afternoon, gentlemen." Alan smiled.  
"Denny, Tom Bishop has a problem with his wife."

"What kind of problem?"

"She caught him having an affair and had him arrested for adultery. Brad and Lori are meeting with them both today; depending on how things go, they may need your help."

Denny snorted. "He should have said goodbye to her years ago." He shook his head. "That man is weak. Been holding onto his money instead of his balls. A good divorce at the right time would have let him keep both."

Alan shrugged.

"I'm sure your wisdom will be more than welcome," Shirley said. "I'll fill you in later. Alan. I hear you got Judge Brown for the Patricia Harris case. What's happening?"

Alan nodded. "We have an evidentiary hearing set for tomorrow afternoon. He's told me not to bring my love beads. You should come, Shirley; you could put flowers in your hair."

Shirley shook her head. "He thinks this is a hippy drug?"

"That's what I'm guessing. I'm also guessing he actually _remembers_ the sixties," Alan quipped.

"Do you need me there?" she asked.

"You're better at _nurturing_ than I am," Alan said. "Patricia might benefit from that."

"Then I'll be there. I've got a meeting at the moment, Alan; I'll catch up with you later."

Alan nodded and Shirley moved on. Alan turned back to Denny. "And before you volunteer, _don't_. That's _not _the kind of nurturing Patricia needs."

Denny held up his hands in defense. "I didn't say anything!"

"I _know_ you, Denny; you were thinking it. Don't."

"You're very protective of this girl," Denny observed.

"She's being very brave, Denny. I want to help her. And I _will_."

"Yes, you will. And you'll be helping The Marinos, too. It looks like you're going to be running around Boston helping _everybody_ this week."

"Jealous?"

"No. I just thought…"

"What." Alan stopped for a moment and eyed his friend suspiciously. "What do you want me to help you with?"

"Nothing," Denny answered.

"Denny…"

"It's nothing!" Denny insisted. "You're busy. It can wait."

"So there's _something_," Alan persisted.

"Not really. I just… thought…"

"_What?"_

"Well," Denny admitted, hesitantly, "I thought… well, I thought you could teach me Italian."

Alan laughed out loud. "You want to speak Italian?"

"It's the language of _love!"_ Denny said. "The _señorita_s _melt_ for it! _Amore, ristorante, bambino prosciutto—"_

"_Perduto,"_ Alan corrected, suppressing a sigh. "And _señorita__s_ is Spanish."

"See? You've got it _down_. Women _love_ that. If I could learn Italian, I'd be an even _bigger_ legend than I am now!" He broke off and started murmuring sweet things in pigeon Italian to his forearm, raised before him as if it was a woman near his face.

"Denny, I don't speak Italian."

Denny stopped his romancing abruptly. "But you—"

"I absorbed a little by spending so much time at the Marinos' house, and I can tell you ten different ways to make pasta, but I can't speak enough even to get my face slapped." Denny's face dropped. Alan shrugged. "Sorry."

Denny murmured. _"Merda."_

Alan fixed him with an incredulous look, and shook his head.

* BL * BL * BL *

"We want to make this as painless as possible," Lori said to the lawyer and client sitting across from her, Brad and Thomas Bishop at the conference room table.

"Maybe _you_ do," said Mrs. Bishop archly.

"Marion," warned her attorney in a low voice.

"You know, that's _exactly_ what I thought you'd be like," Thomas Bishop fired at her, angry. "You're just doing this to make trouble for me."

"Tom," Brad also warned.

"_Make trouble?"_ spat Mrs. Bishop. "You think _I'm_ trying to make trouble? Who was it that slept with that _floozy_, Tom? You didn't even have the decency to find a woman who was worthy of you. Or is _no one_ worthy of you?"

"_Marion,"_ said her attorney more forcefully.

"Is that what you think?" Bishop charged back. "You think I think I'm too good for everyone?"

"Well, you certainly think you're too good for _me_," his wife declared. "But you're not too good for the _law_."

Lori's voice got firm. "Tom, Mrs. Bishop, _please."_ Mrs. Bishop straightened her blouse and let out an exasperated breath as her estranged husband shook his head.

"I want him to go to jail," Mrs. Bishop announced. "He committed a crime."

"We'll get to that," Lori said, warning Bishop into silence with a look. "Mrs. Bishop, my client says the two of you haven't been close for some time. Please tell me what led to all of this."

"Tom and I live separate lives. We have done for years," Mrs. Bishop said simply. "He stopped bringing me flowers, we stopped having 'date nights,' we don't go away for the weekend just for 'us' time any more."

"Many marriages lose that romantic bloom off the flower, Mrs. Bishop," Lori said.

"But men don't lose interest in _sex,"_ the woman replied sharply. Lori raised an eyebrow. "Tom wasn't interested in sex any more. At first I tried to… you know… spice things up a bit…outfits, exotic locations… and that worked for a couple of months." Her tone changed and she sounded deflated. "But then it was back to the Arctic for me. It was too late to save our marriage."

No one spoke. Tom Bishop looked around the room impatiently.

"Did you discuss divorce?" Lori asked.

"I brought it up once, about six months ago."

"And what was the result?"

"He said no," Mrs. Bishop said.

"But you didn't pursue it yourself when he turned the idea down."

"I didn't really _want_ it." Mrs. Bishop swallowed. "I just thought maybe he'd come around." Her tone turned sour. "Then a couple of weeks ago, I got a call from one of my girlfriends. She said her husband saw Tom with another woman, having a very cozy lunch at a local bistro. I didn't say anything to Tom. But from that point on I started noticing other things that were out of character."

"What other things?" Brad asked.

"Long nights at the office. His tie stuffed in his briefcase. Feminine scents on his laundry. I discovered whyone day when Tom was in the shower and his cell phone beeped." Lori held her breath. "_She_ was texting him. Telling him where to meet her that night. I pretended not to know, but I followed him. And then I started getting someone _else_ to follow him. The next time. And the next. And the next. He was acting like I didn't even exist."

"So you had him arrested for adultery to get his attention?" Brad asked.

"She had him arrested because adultery is against the law in this state," her attorney said, as Mrs. Bishop lowered her eyes to the table. "And a conviction would certainly go a long way toward a more equitable split of their assets, under the circumstances. If it came to divorce, later."

"So this is a play for a better divorce settlement?" Brad said, astonished. "Why not just cite the grounds and avoid all the dramatics?"

"It isn't that," Mrs. Bishop insisted. "He deceived me. I thought we might reconcile, but he clearly had no intention of doing that. It's wrong. He needs to go to jail."

Lori spoke calmly, but firmly. "Mrs. Bishop, the Massachusetts adultery law is very old and not very practical any more. Surely you know it won't likely stand up in court."

"I think you'll find that once we present our case to the judge, he'll determine there's sufficient evidence to show that Mr. Bishop has been systematically victimizing his wife, and this was just another step towards her destruction. Jail is certainly a suitable punishment for that."

"_What?"_ Bishop burst, rising to his feet. "You were a good, kind lady when I met you, Marion. But you've turned into a vindictive, bitter harpy."

"You hurt me, Tom," Mrs. Bishop said angrily, standing to confront him. "I was willing to live with things as they were—I thought maybe you'd want me again one day. But instead you humiliated me. Well… now _you_ can see what it's like to be humiliated."

"I think we're done here," Mrs. Bishop's lawyer said with a shrug. "We'll see you in court." They stood up to leave.

Brad and Lori nodded as Bishop fumed. He turned to his lawyers as his estranged wife departed. "You can see she's irrational, right? So we can get this charge dropped?"

"No," Brad said.

Bishop looked at them incredulously.

"Tom, nothing that happened here today was helpful," Lori said. "Your wife is angry; she wants the charges to stand. And if she sues for divorce and there's evidence of infidelity, she could get even _more_ than half. You wronged her, and even though adultery isn't all that uncommon any more, when it gets brought to light, people want to see the straying partner punished. And that's _you."_

"So?" asked Bishop.

"So, we either settle this now, or we prepare for a fight."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan sat at his desk and watched as members of the staff passed by his office on their way out for the night. He contemplated for a brief moment, then consulted his notes, picked up his phone and called out.

"Mr. Russo," he greeted when the call was answered. "Mr. Russo, my name is Alan Shore, I'm a lawyer at Crane, Poole and Schmidt in Boston…. Yes, that's the one. Mr. Russo, I've been consulting with Beppe and Teresa Marino. They run the Italian restaurant in Dedham I believe your employer has been so interested in." Alan listened. "I just want to let you know that we've discussed your _generous_ offer at great length, and they've decided not to take it. They're quite happy as they are, and we'd all appreciate it if you didn't make any further offers in relation to the sale of the establishment…. Yes, that's their final answer. If you could please pass on their thanks to your employer for his interest and consider that the end of it, we'll let everyone get back to business with no further… attempts… on your part to persuade them. I'm sure you know what I mean. Thank you. Good night."

Then he hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and remembered.


	4. Chapter 4

Again, _Boston Legal_ is not mine. Wish it were…

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan frowned as he met his friend in the lobby of Crane, Poole and Schmidt the next day. "Beppe, what's going on?" He ushered the visitor into his office and sat him down on the sofa. "You sounded upset on the phone."

Beppe allowed himself to be led, his arms waving as he tried to talk through Alan's concerned ministrations. "Is terrible, _bambino, terrible,_" he lamented. "The _ristorante,_ we are closed."

Alan frowned and sat in the chair near the sofa. "Closed?" he repeated. "What happened?"

"The Health Department, they came in this morning and told us we have to shut the doors."

"_Why,_ Beppe?"

Beppe held out a piece of paper with a shaking, angry hand. Alan took it and scanned it. "Health code violations?" His brow furrowed as he continued to read. "'Improper storage of raw meats… mouse droppings near the freezer'?" Alan was at a loss. "Beppe, I don't know what to say. This doesn't sound like the way Teresa keeps a kitchen."

"It is not true, _bambino,"_ fretted the older man. "She would die before she have a thing done like that."

Alan nodded, still staring at the notice, thinking hard. "She would," he breathed. Beppe watched him anxiously for a moment. Alan continued reading, then asked, "Beppe, how did this happen?"

"A man come from the Health Department this morning. They do… what you call… _routine di ispezione_…"

"Inspection," Alan clarified.

"_Si. Si,_ inspection. We have them before. Was just Teresa and her niece Maria working in the kitchen. They would never… _never…_"

"Of course not," Alan said. His mind was in many places, all of which left him uneasy.

"Teresa, she cry over this—it is an insult. Plus she no want to lose the restaurant. _Bambino,_ what happens now?"

Alan snapped out of his thoughts and put a hand on Beppe's shoulder. "Beppe, we need to have a talk."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Denny, I feel awful. I'm afraid I precipitated this," Alan confessed a short time later.

"How?" Denny asked, rocking back in his chair and tossing the notice back on his desk.

"I phoned Fil Russo last night and told him the Marinos weren't interested in his employer's generous offer to buy their business and to leave them alone." He clicked his tongue ruefully and shook his head. "I had a vague, misguided hope that this was a straightforward offer and that the call might have ended it neatly. This tells me I couldn't have been more wrong."

Denny just nodded.

"I have to fix this, Denny. Teresa and Beppe are both _very_ upset. This is an insult to them, and worst of all, it's completely false."

"I don't think you're right in blaming yourself here," Denny put in.

Alan looked at him incredulously. "How can I _not_?" he protested. "I gave Del Sarto's man an ultimatum; he trumped it."

Denny shrugged. "They were getting harassed and vandalized…nickeled and dimed out of business." He waved his hand dismissively. "Del Sarto was sneaking around, dragging it out. This way you got him to tip his hand. He wants them out. No more pussyfooting around. _Be a man._ Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Now he's had to."

"I'm not so sure that's a good thing, Denny," Alan said, shaking his head. "I've looked into this further. It seems that one of Del Sarto's shell companies has bought up most of the surrounding property. And a contact I have in the Planning Department says there are proposals for a small shopping center and apartment complex for the block the restaurant is located on." He frowned. "Del Sarto has owned most of that block for six months or more. There are only three properties that he _doesn't_ own, including Beppe and Teresa's, and one of them settles next week."

"Did you tell Beppe?"

"I did."

"What did he say?"

"He got angry. He hates the idea of being intimidated by a bully. He says someone has to stand up for what's right, and he wants to fight." He shook his head. "It's just like him." He sighed. "But I'm worried, Denny. I'm very worried."

"So what are you going to do? Back off?"

Alan contemplated for only a second. "No." He thought about the friend who had come to him today, and the distress in his eyes. "Denny, I owe Beppe and Teresa… my sanity. Last night I was thinking about all the times I… _ran_ to their house when I was too frightened to stay at home. They _always_ let me in and made me feel safe." He shook his head, as though to shake some of the memories away. "I know I can be a despicable person, Denny. But if not for the kindness of Teresa and Beppe, I would no doubt be…" He shook his head as he tried to think of the right words, "truly lost. I can't repay them by ignoring their wishes, even if I think they're unwise." His eyes took on an earnest look that left Denny with no words to say. "He's adamant that they won't give in. Do you know anyone in the Health Department?"

Denny shook his head. "Only a couple of personal assistants. Ooh, they were both so _sexy_…. One of them would wipe the desk clean with her…" He stopped when Alan's sharp look hit him.

"I'm due in court. Do me a favor. See what you can find out about…" Alan picked the notice back up off the desk decisively and looked at it. "Clyde Tippett. I need to have a meeting with him after Patricia Harris's hearing. And I'll need to know what problem he's about to have."

* BL * BL * BL *

Patricia Harris sat in the witness stand, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her chin up and unapologetic, her bright scarf lending some unexpected and pleasant color to the courtroom. "Remember," Alan had advised her when he and Shirley met with her before the session, "you have nothing to prove. Just be yourself." He had no doubt that she would be, noting with wry amusement that she had chosen a paisley print for her head gear, and certain that it was connected with the discussion about hippies and love beads that had taken place yesterday. His already high estimation of her went up a notch.

"Patricia, you have been charged with possession of a controlled substance. Marijuana," Alan began.

Patricia nodded. "Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

"I have a friend who knows someone in Rhode Island who's going through this, too, and she's been using it as part of her treatment. I visited her one day, and… I brought some home with me."

"What is 'this'?" Alan prompted.

"I have terminal brain cancer."

"And how long do the doctors tell you that you have to live?"

"About six months. It could be a little more, but not likely. Most likely a bit less."

"You seem at peace with that."

"I've already gone through all my screaming, crying and bargaining. Now I just want to have some quality of life in the time I have left."

"Patricia, would you tell us how marijuana is used in the treatment of brain cancer?"

"No one is _exactly_ sure how it works. But the chemicals in cannabis actually have some properties that help the cancer cells in the brain feed on themselves."

"So the cancer eats itself away."

"Exactly."

"And would this work for you?"

"It's doubtful that it would have any impact in time to help me. It is just a small percentage of a treatment plan."

"So you don't want it for that."

"Well, at some point I would have, but now, no."

"But you used it anyway."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because marijuana is also medically proven to help manage pain. And the nausea that comes with some of the medical treatments. It's awful. And the fear."

"You don't seem like a very fearful person," Alan observed.

"Sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I'm just _awesome,"_ she announced. Alan smiled at her. "But sometimes," she continued, her voice growing softer, "sometimes at night, when I'm alone, or, when I've just woken up after a long sleep when I don't remember dreaming… I get scared." Alan's expression softened as he let her continue. "I'm young. You know, I'm not supposed to die yet. I'm supposed to get married, and have kids, and have a job…" Alan let the silence fill the room as Patricia paused to compose herself. "If you haven't experienced that, you can't…. I mean you just _can't_… know what it feels like. But mainly, I find it helps with nausea. Normal medications aren't effective enough."

Alan nodded, then asked softly, "Patricia, you are aware that there are laws against the use and possession of marijuana in Massachusetts."

"Yes," she answered. "But I don't think that's fair."

The corner of Alan's lips quirked up in a smile at the return of his client's boldness. "Why not?"

"Because seventeen other states allow it for medicinal purposes, and I don't understand why I should be punished just because I live in Massachusetts."

"Conservatives have been saying that for years," Alan quipped. Brown's gavel came crashing down. Alan ignored it. "Fairness aside, Patricia, you're defying the law."

Patricia nodded, almost apologetically. "I know. But I only have so much time left. I don't want to spend…" Her voice trailed off. Alan watched as her eyes filled with tears. There was a silence as she composed herself. Then she spoke up, clearly. "You remember, Alan, that the District Attorney offered to drop the charges against me if I promised not to do this again." Alan nodded. "I can't do that. I don't want to say something that isn't true. It's _my life. _And it's _my death._ I need this." She looked at the judge, who looked down at her, frowning thoughtfully. "I _need_ this."

"Thank you, Patricia," Alan said, with an encouraging nod and a small smile. Then he went back to the defendant's table and sat. He exchanged looks with Shirley, but said nothing.

Frank Ginsberg approached the witness stand. "Miss Harris, I admire your principles."

She glanced at Alan, who just nodded once, and then said, "Thank you."

"I appreciate you not wanting to sully your character by lying. I _do_," Ginsberg emphasized. "People need to be honest about their intentions. And I admire the way you're facing this incredible struggle."

"Thank you."

"Miss Harris, you know that Rhode Island, Vermont and Maine all have laws allowing the use of marijuana for medical purposes."

"I do."

"Could you go to those states and get what you need?"

"Yes, but I'd have to move there, and—"

"So there are ways to accommodate your needs without breaking the law."

"That's right, but I don't want to—"

"That's all, Miss. Harris. Thank you."

Ginsberg walked away. Patricia looked at Alan and Shirley, anxious. Alan stood up. "Patricia, how could you get permission to use marijuana from Vermont, Maine or Rhode Island?"

"I'd have to move there."

"And why don't you do that?"

"_Healthy_ people don't like spending their time packing and unpacking and relocating. It's time-consuming and it's just painful. _I_ don't have the kind of time required to do that."

"Do you know anyone in those states? Have any family there that you could stay with?"

"No."

"You see, Your Honor," Alan said, turning his attention to Judge Brown, "what Mr. Ginsberg is implying is that it would be quite simple for my client to get the medical marijuana she wants and deserves, simply by going to a nearby state and asking for it. What he isn't mentioning, is that you have to have _residency _in those states, and my client doesn't have enough time left to do that. Not to mention, she'd be forced to move away from her _entire _emotional support system, something which any psychologist will tell you is absolutely _crucial_ to the well-being of anyone fighting a difficult battle, or indeed any kind of struggle at all. But if we can get away from the uncomfortable arena of our state's lack of compassion for the dying, then it shouldn't be any trouble at all to take that extra step to tell them that they should just move away. 'Get out! Go someplace else. We don't want to have to look at you here. And oh, _look!'"_ Alan continued, his voice becoming not-quite-mocking, "'_that_ nearby state has a handy law that will allow us to avoid our responsibility toward the infirm. Our health care costs will go _right_ down. Ah, there's a nicely balanced budget, drawn up on the backs of the people who need our help the most.'"

Brown slammed the gavel down on the bench violently. He looked at Alan. "Mr. Shore. If you're going to stand there and imply that Massachusetts is trying to get rid of its sick people in order for the state to be able to manage its finances better, I'm not going to listen! It's outrageous! It's shocking!"

"It is. I'd hate to think it's true. We'll see how that works out." Alan turned to his client. "Patricia, you're a youth councilor, aren't you."

"Yes."

"What do you tell the youths you work with about drugs?"

"Stay away from them. They lead to trouble. Drugs aren't the answer."

"So isn't this just a _tiny_ bit hypocritical?"

"It _is_ the same, I suppose. But it's different. The kids I talk to haven't got cancer. Nausea. Medical issues. They have emotional trouble, and they don't have support systems or people around to help them through their difficult times. They're using drugs to escape reality."

"And you're using it…?"

"To face it."

"Thank you, Patricia. No further questions." Alan smiled kindly and sat down next to Shirley.

"Step down," Brown directed Patricia. "I've heard enough," he said to them when she got to the table. "I'm going to take this matter under advisement. Be back here tomorrow at one o'clock." He eyeballed Alan. "And _don't_ bring any of your _outrageous_ accusations with you, Mr. Shore. Or I'll hold you in contempt."

Judge Brown swept out of the room. Alan and Shirley stood up and turned to Patricia, who was gathering her purse. "That went well," Shirley said to her.

"You think so? He seemed awfully… angry."

"I have that effect on some judges," Alan volunteered cheerfully. "All right, I lie: most judges." Patricia grinned, and Alan returned her smile. "Patricia, you did just fine. You were confident, elegant, and intelligent. How are you feeling?"

"A little shaky."

Alan smiled at her. "You were terrific; you are going to get what you need. I promise you that. Now if you'll excuse me; I have an urgent appointment to attend to."

"I'll meet you later," Shirley said. "Come on," she said to Patricia, "we've spent enough time here today."

And Alan was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

The storyline, the original characters, the text… mine. Everything else…. Thank you, David E. Kelley.

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan sat across the desk from Denny in the name partner's office, staring at the paper that held the details his friend had gathered for him. "This goes against my better judgment, Denny," he admitted, shaking his head. "I don't want to make things worse, but I don't know what else to do."

"You _can't_ make things worse." Alan didn't look convinced. "Oh, you might be propelling things a little faster toward the inevitable conclusion, but that could be a blessing in disguise."

"How?" Alan asked.

"Think about it—weeks or months of harassment, vandalism, stand-over tactics..."

"I don't want them to go through that, Denny."

"Well, then?"

"But I can't get them to listen. They still think Del Sarto's people can be reasoned with. No matter how many times I tell them they _can't_."

"So… how about you tell them that you tried and failed? Time to pack up and move on."

"I've never been able to lie to him, Denny. Besides, it wouldn't stop him. If Beppe thought I was unsuccessful, he'd still try to end this himself, and that's exactly what I'm trying to avoid. No matter _who _ends up facing these people, it will _all _lead to the same conclusion: Del Sarto is going to have that restaurant."

"So tell him that."

"I _did!" _Alan replied, frustrated; "he asked me to set up a meeting for _him_ with _Del Sarto,"_ Alan told him. He shook his head again. "Even if he managed to get one, he'd be laughed off. Or threatened. And then Beppe would lose his temper, and Del Sarto would take aim for him and Teresa in a way that I just can't bear to think about, Denny."

Alan looked at Denny with troubled eyes. Then he mused, "Maybe I could… meet with Del Sarto myself. See if I can get him to listen me."

"Sure," Denny agreed smoothly. "You can have a drink, come to an agreement, and then you can ride off into the sunset on your unicorn." Alan fixed Denny with an annoyed look. "You know that won't work," Denny said.

"Denny, I don't know what to do_,"_ Alan admitted.

Denny smiled kindly. "Look, I know you're a good friend; you're the _best_ friend. But you can't stop the Marinos, and they won't go down without a fight. At least this way they have someone on their side." He shrugged when Alan didn't seem satisfied. "So you stir the pot a little. Make Del Sarto show his hand a little faster. But he won't stop until he has the place. You know that." Alan nodded reluctantly. "You realize you're setting yourself up as a target," Denny warned. "He's going to get pissed off at _you."_

"Better me than Beppe and Teresa, Denny. I _will_ not, _cannot,_ let them face these people alone. And if the only way I can shield them is by redirecting Del Sarto's wrath toward _me,_ I'll do it."

"So?"

"So," Alan concluded, looking at the paper in his hand, "it's time to make an impression on our friend Mr. Tippett."

* BL * BL * BL *

Brad looked up from the papers he and Lori had been studying on the glass table in her office as she stood up and stretched. "We could say she accepted the status quo, so she shouldn't have been so offended when he strayed," he suggested.

"Except she's the one who offered the divorce," Lori countered.

"Ah, but when he said no, she didn't pursue it."

"That's true," Lori replied. She leaned back against the edge of her desk, looking down at Brad and the work laid out between them. "But there's a problem."

"What's that?" Brad asked.

"I can't stand him."

"You can't stand—?" Brad spluttered, leaning forward on the sofa. "I thought you said he needed to be professionally represented so that he wouldn't be disadvantaged!"

"I _did_! But that doesn't mean I don't think he's an arrogant—"

"Prick."

"_Man_, who I really loathe having to be an advocate for. And a judge is going to see him the same way."

"Agreed," Brad said. He crossed his legs, relaxed back into the sofa again. "The guy is completely unlikeable. Once this gets to court, he's toast."

"So we have to keep this _out_ of court," Lori declared. "The question is _how_?"

"If we make her a decent divorce settlement offer, that might do it—but then, she might accept it and _still_ pursue the charges."

"We could make it conditional."

"We could. But he's already said he won't make an offer _at all_. And even if he did, she could decline, pursue the charges, and then because he's already tipped his hand about what might be on offer, she could go after him anyway—_after_ he's convicted." Brad shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

Lori laughed softly and shook her head. "We have to find something she wants more than money and revenge."

A voice from the doorway offered an idea. "How about an apology?"

Lori and Brad looked at their visitor. "Shirley," Lori greeted.

"'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,'" Shirley quoted, coming into the office. "But usually an apology can dampen the fires a bit."

"Tom Bishop has been perfectly clear about the fact that he doesn't want to give in one bit," Brad countered. "He's full of righteous indignation about his wife having him arrested in the first place. He doesn't think he's done anything _wrong_!"

Shirley nodded. "Yes, Paul's told me about this poster boy for domestic bliss."

"We've asked him to apologize and try to make amends, but he's adamant that he can win this on the merits," Lori said.

"Of which there are none?" Shirley guessed.

Brad nodded. "Exactly."

Lori huffed, exasperated. "I've never met such a stubborn, pig-headed, arrogant..."

"Sounds like you're very fond of him," Shirley said with a small smile. "I believe Tom is a long-time acquaintance of Denny's. I'll ask him talk to him."

Lori shook her head ruefully. "I'm sorry, Shirley. We're working really hard to achieve a good outcome here, but he just won't listen to reason. We're batting our heads against the wall."

"We can't control the near-sightedness of other people. Keep working on a defense—if he won't listen to Denny, he'll still need one. And judges don't accept stupidity pleas."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan ignored the hand offered to him as he walked into the small office and started speaking in a stream of words. "Mr. Tippett, I'm Alan Shore from Crane, Poole and Schmidt law firm. You may have heard of us; we win our cases. We bring down everyone from big pharmaceutical, to big oil, to big libidos. It's been a long day, so let's waive the courtesies we were going to pretend to have and get right down to business." As Tippett started reaching for words, Alan pulled a document out of his briefcase and put it on the desk, forcing Tippett to sit down to read it. "You've made a mistake on one of your inspections," he said, without missing a beat, not wanting to give Tippett a second to gain his footing. "I'm sure it was an oversight; you have so many appointments in a day you've obviously confused two of your locations. You need to correct your error before you become a monumental laughing stock. Fix this up now while I'm here and no one will ever be the wiser."

Tippett looked at the paper in front of him. "This is the inspection report for _Bennisimo Italia_."

"It is."

"Mr. Shore, I shut this restaurant down this morning."

"You did."

Tippett looked at Alan sternly. "The owners of _Bennisimo_ will have a week to make things better and then I'll go back and see if they should be allowed to re-open."

Alan smiled pleasantly. "I don't think you understand, Mr. Tippett. You see, this restaurant _didn't breach_ any part of the health code. You've made an _error._ You need to retract this document and remove any stain from its record with the State immediately."

"Mr. Shore, what goes into my reports is checked by my superiors and confirmed. I have neither the authority, nor the inclination, to change what I have put forward. If the owners have any objections, they can meet the standards required by the State or they can go to court. In either case I have nothing further to say."

"I see." Alan paused for a moment, looked at Tippett, and sat down as if to speak confidentially. "You know, Clyde," he said finally, leaning forward with a small, conspiratorial smile. "It is Clyde, isn't it?" he confirmed. "Will Rogers once said a man should live in a way that would make him unafraid to sell his family parrot to the town gossip."

When his statement was met with a perplexed, but slightly concerned, look, Alan sat back in his chair and spoke plainly, getting satisfaction from the growing consternation on Tippett's face. "I've got your family parrot, Clyde. Or perhaps more precisely, _Annabel's_ family parrot. It _loves _to talk. Mainly, it says, _'Ooooh, Clyyyde,'_" Alan moaned, briefly writhing in the chair. Then as quickly as he transformed into a squirming mistress, he changed back into a sharp negotiator, fixing his wide-eyed target with a cold stare. Stabbing the document on the desk with his finger, he said, "We both know this report is completely false. And whatever your reasons for defaming my client, I hope they're stronger than your marriage. Because _Mrs._ Tippett, whose name happens to be _Sarah_, might finally get that pet parrot she's always wanted."

Tippett looked at Alan with a mixture of disgust and fear. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Shore?"

"I suspect _someone_ is threatening you, Clyde. Or perhaps your boss. Would I be right? But it's not me; threatening without following through is no fun and all, and besides, it wastes my time. And my time is expensive, so I tell it like it is. But you know what? For some reason that I couldn't _possibly _begin to fathom, I like you. So I'll be generous." Alan stood up and gathered up his briefcase. "I'm going to leave now, and trust you to organize the document _Bennisimo Italia_ needs to re-open in time for their regular opening hours tomorrow."

"And if I don't get it?"

Alan quirked his mouth. "Let's leave that unanswered, shall we? Anticipation can be so…." Alan shivered as though he was cold, "…_oooh_."

"You don't know who you're playing with," Tippett warned him.

"Oh, but I _do,"_ Alan responded. Then he asked pointedly, "Do you?"

"It's not up to me," Tippett blurted out suddenly. "I follow orders."

Alan raised his eyebrows and offered a tight-lipped smile. "Well then, Clyde, you need to decide whom you fear more: your boss, or your wife. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Then he turned and walked out of the office.

* BL * BL * BL *

"I knew you'd come to me sooner or later, Shirley," Denny said, leaning forward at his desk.

"Only about the Thomas Bishop case, Denny. Brad and Lori can't get reason through to that mulish, bigheaded friend of yours."

"He's not my friend," Denny corrected. "Well… he wouldn't let me sleep with his wife."

"Would that have made him a better friend?" Shirley asked, amused.

"Well, _he_ wasn't sleeping with her any more—I didn't want her to go to waste!" Denny shrugged. "We're still on speaking terms. I'll try and get him to see sense."

"'Those who can, do; those who can't...'" Shirley started quoting. When Denny shot her a _"What?"_ look, she just smiled and nodded, satisfied. "Never mind. I'm sure you'll do just fine. Thank you, Denny."

Alan appeared in the doorway. "Denny. Shirley."

"I thought you had an appointment," Shirley said.

"I did," Alan answered.

"How did it go?" Denny asked. "With the… inspector?"

Alan came to stand beside Shirley. "I gave him until tomorrow before I make his life uncomfortable."

"Or _someone else_ does, if he caves in."

"Exactly. In either case, he's not in an enviable position."

"You did well today in court, Alan," Shirley said to him. "If Judge Brown's cheese hasn't slipped completely off its cracker, I think we'll be successful in getting her permission to possess and grow."

"If we're not, she'll still be fine," Alan reassured her. "I promised her that." He looked at his best friend. "Denny, I'm afraid I'll have to skip our balcony time tonight. I'm going to call Beppe and Teresa, and when I'm done I don't think I'll be in the mood for company, regardless of _how _delightful it might be. Then I'll head home and consider what to do if my little attempt at sorting this out is unsuccessful. And how to address the bigger picture, if it _is."_ He offered a small smile to Denny and Shirley. "Good night."

Shirley turned to Denny as Alan disappeared. "Do I want to know what he's talking about?"

Denny shrugged. "Probably not."

"I didn't think so. Should I?"

"It has to do with Vinnie Del Sarto."

"Del Sarto?" Shirley echoed. "Denny, Vincent Del Sarto is a _very_ dangerous man. Is Alan in over his head in something?"

"No, no, no," Denny dismissed with a wave of his hand. "His friend who was here the other day, the one who owns the restaurant, Alan thinks Del Sarto wants to buy his place so he can tear it down and build a development of some sort. They're having some trouble."

"And Alan is stepping into this?" Shirley asked, concerned. "Denny, tell him to leave it alone."

"They're stubborn as mules, and he wants to protect them."

"Denny, you're Alan's friend; you have to make him see sense. Del Sarto can make his life Hell. Or worse."

"All right, all right," Denny acquiesced. "I'll talk to him in the morning."

"Good."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan was pulling out his key to let himself into his hotel suite when someone startled him by speaking right behind him.

"Are you Alan Shore?"

Alan didn't turn around, only moved his head just far enough to see a large blonde man standing much closer to him than he cared for. A similar turn to his right showed another person definitely encroaching on his personal space. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Who wants to know?" Alan asked pointedly, still facing his door.

"Vincent Del Sarto."

Alan composed himself, tried to think of a way out of what was clearly going to be an unpleasant encounter. He glanced just slightly at the man, considering and rejecting potential methods of escape in the matter of just a few seconds: the stairs, the elevator, even shouting. None of them were viable. So, preparing himself for the only long shot that had even the tiniest chance of success, he tightened his grip on the door handle and smiled. "I'm afraid I don't talk to flunkies," he said, almost cordially. "If Mr. Del Sarto wants to talk to me, please tell him to make an appointment to see me at my office. If you'll excuse me."

He braced himself, then swiped the electronic key and opened the door with lightning speed, hoping to get himself inside without being followed. But although he had suspected that would be a vain attempt to get himself out of trouble, it was still a shock when he was pushed from behind and the two men came in with him, shutting the door behind them. Alan turned to face them and tried to remain calm. "Perhaps you misunderstood me. Allow me to clarify. My appointments are scheduled through my secretary. Good night, gentlemen."

He looked at them expectantly. When they didn't answer, Alan took a deep breath and braced himself as they approached.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't own anything that you've seen on the show.

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny ignored his cell phone when it rang at first, preferring to continue talking in his office with Shirley, whom he'd managed to convince to have dinner with him after talking with Brad and Lori. But when the ringing didn't stop, and she gave him a stern look, he stood up and pulled it out of his pocket. "Denny Crane," he growled, glancing unapologetically at her.

"Denny, I need you… to go check on… on Beppe."

"Alan?" All traces of Denny's surliness disappeared at the strained sound of his friend's voice. "Alan, where are you?"

"Denny," panted Alan, "find Beppe. Make sure he… and Teresa… are okay."

"What's going on? Where are you?" Denny asked again. Shirley frowned at the urgency in Denny's voice.

"Denny, just—do it," Alan burst breathlessly.

Denny worried. Alan sounded like he was in distress. His voice was shaky and weak, his breathing heavy, ragged. Something was wrong. "I'll do it, I'll do it," he agreed. "What's going on?"

"Two of Del Sarto's pals… were waiting… for me at… the hotel. I'm worried… about Beppe... and his… family. Denny… please…"

"I'll find him," Denny promised. "Alan, are you all right?" He heard only the younger man's difficult breathing. "I'm coming to check on you first. Alan? Alan?"

Finally Alan's faint voice pleaded, "Please, Denny."

"All right, all right," Denny agreed again. "But Alan, I'm sending someone over to check on you. Do you hear me? I'll do what you want, but I'm going to get someone over there now, until I finish with Beppe. It'll be all right, Alan. I'll have someone there soon."

A low groan was all Denny heard in response. He turned to Shirley. "Alan's in trouble."

* BL * BL * BL *

Brad and Shirley barely noticed the gilded décor in the lobby of the Fairmont Copley Plaza as they made their way to the elevator and up to Alan's suite. Shirley held tight to the electronic key she'd been given by Denny, which he had secured for a multitude of reasons from Alan at some stage during their friendship. When they reached the right door, she knocked tentatively, but there was no answer. She and Brad exchanged looks.

"Alan?" Brad called. He knocked more strongly. "Alan! Open up!"

Shirley held up the key. "Shall we?" she asked.

"Let me go first," Brad said.

Shirley pursed her lips but didn't answer. She swiped the key, opened the door cautiously and let Brad take the first step inside. She followed close behind and the two of them stood in the doorway to get their bearings as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Shirley groped for a light switch near the door and flicked it. They both gasped.

"What the…?" Brad breathed.

The cushion of the chaise next to them was lying on the floor. A potted plant that appeared to have belonged on the mantelpiece of the fireplace was upended on the carpet, the dirt spilling out. A lamp, while still on the table, had clearly been jostled, its shade askew. A suit jacket—presumably Alan's—was crumpled in the archway that led to the bedroom area.

"Wait here," Brad ordered Shirley, moving further into the suite. She nodded and stayed put. "Alan?" called Brad. He stepped out of Shirley's sight and turned on another light. "Alan!" A few more seconds. "It's a mess in here." Shirley waited impatiently, glancing around her nervously, although there was no way anyone could sneak up on her where she was.

Suddenly, Brad shouted out again, but this time, the voice was not searching; it was discovering. "Alan!"

Shirley's chest tightened. "Brad? What's going on?" she called.

"Stay there; let me check the rest of the place out." An interminably long minute later, Brad re-appeared. "Come on."

He led her quickly past more chaos to the far side of the room, where she was shocked to see Alan on the floor, sitting propped up against the bed, surrounded by part of the bedspread that come off the bed and pooled behind him. His clothes were disheveled, his eyes half closed and staring vacantly, and blood was trickling from a cut near his lip and another near his temple. His jaw was slack, his breath coming in rasping hitches, and he was drenched in perspiration, though he was shivering. His open cell phone was cradled in his hand on the floor, though there was no strength in his grip. Shirley knelt beside him and tried to get his attention while Brad gave him the once-over. "Alan, it's Shirley. Brad and I are here. Alan?"

Alan's head turned just slightly toward the sound of her voice, and his eyes brightened briefly in recognition. He tried to speak. It clearly hurt. "Bep…" He closed his eyes and swallowed, a whimper of a sound, then opened them again. "Beppe."

"Denny's gone to find him," Shirley reassured him, trying not to wince visibly at a rapidly-darkening bruise high up on his forehead.

"Can we get you up, buddy?" Brad asked gently, when he'd finished checking Alan for obvious injuries. "You think you can manage that?" He took the phone from Alan's hand and placed it on the crumpled bed sheets behind them. Then, as Shirley gripped Alan's shoulder, Brad slowly tried to lean him forward so they could help him stand. But after only a few inches, Alan cried out sharply and they stopped, easing him back against the bed again, where he stayed, panting heavily as he broke out in a fresh sweat.

"We'd better get him to the hospital," Shirley said.

"If Del Sarto is responsible for this, the less publicity it gets, the better. I have a friend who was in the medical corps in Iraq; I'll call him. He'll do us a favor." He stood up pulled out his cell phone, as Shirley watched Alan, concerned.

* BL * BL * BL *

"I'd really rather he go to the hospital where they can check him out better, but this should get him through the night."

"It's better right now that no one know about this, Mark," Brad said, glancing over to where Alan was settled in his bed.

"I know," said Mark. "So I'm gonna leave you with these." He handed a small bottle of pills to Brad. "He's sleeping now, but he's gonna feel it in the morning. He might have a couple of cracked ribs, can't tell without an X-ray, so I've wrapped him up anyway. And he must have hit his head pretty hard, judging from the bump on it—seriously, man, get that checked out. There might be a fracture."

Brad nodded. "We will. Anything else to watch for?"

"Just general vagueness. If he gets up in the morning and he still has no idea of what's going on around him, you get him to a doctor, I don't care _who _finds out. You got it?"

"Got it. Thanks a million, man," Brad said.

"Yeah, you're welcome." Mark pointed to the bottle. "For pain. Never more than one, and not less than six hours apart. I gave him a shot half an hour ago, so nothing till the middle of the night. Someone staying here with him?"

"Yes," Shirley piped up from the other side of the room, where she was picking up the mess that had been left by Alan's visitors. "He won't be alone."

"Good, okay." Mark looked back at Alan. "Try and wake him up every hour. Just to make sure you can. If you can't, you get to the hospital, pronto." Brad nodded. "You guys sure mess with the wrong people," Mark observed.

"I think the wrong people mess with _us,"_ Brad countered.

"Whatever—I just hope you know what you're doing." Heading for the door, Mark said, "Call me if you need me. Make sure you do, okay?"

"Okay."

"Thank you, so much, Mark," Shirley said, coming to them.

Mark nodded, squeezed Shirley's arm encouragingly, gave Brad a hearty bear hug, and left.

"Now what?" Brad asked Shirley.

"Now we finish cleaning this place up… and wait for Denny." Shirley started to resume her work, then stopped when she had a sudden thought. "Do you think they'll come back?"

"Come back?" Brad echoed. Then he shook his head. "This was a warning. They'll only come back if Alan doesn't back off."

Shirley looked at Brad gravely. "Why do you think I asked the question."

* BL * BL * BL *

Beppe hurried into Alan's office and rushed to the younger man's side on the sofa. "_Bambino,_ you friend Denny told me what happened. Are you all right?"

Alan smiled affectionately at his friend but held up a hand to stop the embrace that was coming. "Forgive me if I don't stand up, Beppe. I'm a little fragile this morning," he said.

"It's terrible," the Italian lamented as Denny entered the office. "Why you no go to _ospedale_—hospital? You no look so good. Denny, you tell him, eh?" He turned back to Alan. "I'm sorry, _bambino._ Is our fault. We tell you we want to keep _il ristorante,_ and you get hurt because of us. Is no good. Is no good," he fretted.

"I'll be fine," Alan said, as a small twitch made him catch his breath. He rested a hand across his abdomen and glanced at Denny before looking back directly at his friend. "Beppe, what happened last night was a warning. Not to _me,_ but to _you._ Del Sarto wants you to walk away."

Beppe frowned. "Then he should no hurt _you._ He's mad at me and Teresa, no?"

"Beppe, you know that's not how these people work," Denny chided lightly. "They go for your friends, for your business, first. Then if you don't get the picture, they'll go for your throat."

Alan explained, "Beppe, I'm the lawyer; I act on your instructions. They want you to tell me to back off. If they continue to be thwarted, they won't be nearly as kind to _you_."

"We cannot let them just come in and take over," Beppe insisted strongly. "Is not right."

"Beppe, it's dangerous ground you're treading on."

"We no back down just because something is hard, _bambino._ If it's right, is right. But this…" Beppe gestured toward Alan's cuts and bruises, "…this is no what we want. We will do this by ourselves."

"Beppe, you _can't."_

"We have already talked about it. Teresa, she never forgive me if I let this happen to you again."

"I'm not concerned about myself, Beppe. I'm worried about you. _And_ about Teresa. Del Sarto means business. Last night just proved we're making headway. You need to seriously and carefully consider the next step. If the offer is still out there, you could buy another restaurant and start over." Beppe's expression grew stubborn. "Beppe, I'm very concerned, and I must tell you again, I don't think we can win this. Sooner or later, Del Sarto will own your restaurant."

"Then it be _later,"_ Beppe insisted. "Right now we stand up to him."

"Beppe, please; he isn't a playground bully. The stakes are much higher."

"But is same principle," Beppe said. "Where there is bully, there must be someone who say, 'No more.'" Alan didn't look convinced. Beppe's expression softened. _"Bambino,"_ he said, "_il ristorante,_ it is not the important thing. It is being able to hold our heads up high. If we run away, we are cowards, no?"

"_No,"_ Alan replied.

"We take money, we start over, and then what—somebody decide they want the next place? We start this all over again? It ends now, _bambino._ Is how it must be. Teresa and I have both agreed. But this… we cannot have this happen to you again. We will fight on our own."

"Now _that_ I will not allow." He looked at Denny, then back to Beppe. "If you're absolutely determined to fight, I'll fight with you." Alan put his hand on Beppe's fondly. "Beppe, you know I adore you and Teresa. I want you safe. But if you really _will not_ back down, I _must_ be the one who acts for you." As Beppe opened his mouth to protest, Alan added, "I'll take care of myself. You worry about yourself and Teresa." He tried to shift on the sofa, but stopped when it made him breathless. Beppe reached out to help him; Alan thanked him with a small smile. "Beppe, I'm going to call a friend of mine who specializes in security. He'll have someone with you and Teresa until everything is resolved."

Beppe shook his head. "No, no, you no have to—"

"Beppe. You need protection. He'll have someone with you until I say otherwise. You understand?"

Beppe looked up at Denny and laughed briefly. "This one, he thinks he's the boss now, _eh?_ Just because he's gotten taller than Beppe." He turned back to Alan. "You be safe, _bambino_," he said earnestly. _"Ristoranti_, they feed the body. _Le famiglie, _theyfeed the soul. You're our family, eh? You no forget that in your fancy law office."

Alan smiled affectionately. "I won't forget, Beppe. I'll call you when I've spoken to the Health Department, and if I'm successful I'll bring you the re-open order. Tell Teresa I'll eat at the restaurant as soon as I'm up to it."

"That's _riiiight,"_ Denny spoke up. "You promised me one of those fancy veal dishes."

"_Osso buco,"_ Alan said.

"That's the one," Denny confirmed.

"You will each have one—and it be on the house, eh?" Beppe promised. "Alan, I will tell Teresa. She will be happy to have you eating at our table again."

"And I'll be delighted to be there."

After a few more words of encouragement and caution, Beppe departed. Alan lay his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. _"Testa di mulo,"_ he breathed with a slight shake of his head.

"What?" Denny asked.

"Mule-headed," Alan replied. "Teresa used to call him that. But it applies just as easily to her. Denny, they're not going to listen." He opened his eyes and looked wearily at his friend. "I thought this would _certainly_ convince them. This isn't going to end well," he predicted helplessly.

"Who are these friends you're going to send over there?" Denny asked.

"I have… acquaintances who can help look after Beppe and Teresa for me," Alan replied. "If they can stand up against Del Sarto and his thugs."

Brad appeared in the doorway. "Hey, champ, how you feeling today?"

Alan regarded his colleague. "Much better than I'm told I would have if you and Shirley hadn't come to the rescue last night. Thank you, Brad," he said.

Brad shrugged. "We were just lucky I knew someone who could help you without too much noise getting out about it."

"I appreciate that," Alan replied. "By the way, Brad," he added in a brighter voice, "when I woke up this morning I was only in my briefs between the sheets. Did you undress me?" Brad frowned, embarrassed, and started to respond, but Alan didn't give him a chance to answer. "Were you attracted to me, Brad?"

Brad scrunched up his face in distaste, shook his head, and walked away.

"That wasn't very nice," Denny observed without judgment.

"I know. But I feel like there's an avalanche roaring through my head and I'm not in a very good mood. I'm sure I'll apologize later. Help me up, Denny. I need to make some calls."


	7. Chapter 7

Boston Legal? No, not mine. Original characters, storyline, text? Mine. That's about it!

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny shook his head as though disappointed in the client in his office. "Tom, you need to make this adultery charge thing go away."

"I know _that_," Bishop retorted, taking the drink he was offered. "I must say I'm not terribly enthusiastic about the lawyers you've assigned to this case. Where did they get their degrees? Lawyers-R-Us? They want me to apologize—they want me to tell Marion I was wrong. They're not making any headway at all."

"That's because they have a dimwitted bastard for a client." Bishop opened him mouth immediately to protest. Denny waved him down and continued. "Tom, you've got enough money to pay off five ex-wives and still be in the top half of the World's 100 Richest People list. You should have let her go when you had the chance."

"It wouldn't be enough, Denny. You don't know my Marion."

"But she's _not_ 'your Marion,' is she, Tom?" Denny asked. "You said yourself, you don't love her any more."

"I don't."

"Then give her the money and let her go."

"What, are you representing _her_ now?" Bishop said accusingly.

Denny shook his head and laughed softly, angering Bishop. "Tom, all this time I've known you, I thought you understood women."

"Does anyone ever really understand them?" Bishop retorted.

"_I_ do," Denny answered. He spread his hands as though to present himself. "Denny Crane!" He shrugged and took a sip of his own drink. "Relax, I didn't call you here to ask you to do that anyway."

The two men sat down on Denny's sofa. "Then what _did_ you call me for?"

"Tom, you need to play this smart. You got caught with your pants down. Wives don't like that. You're not going to get out of this by being greedy. You've got to make her love you again."

"I don't _want_ her to love me again."

"Sure you do!" Denny eyeballed his visitor. "Tom. If you want out of this mess, you have to apologize for dragging her along for so long and then humiliating her in public."

"I was careful, Denny; she never should have known," Bishop insisted.

"No, you were stupid," Denny replied. Again, Bishop started to protest. Denny spoke over him. "Calm down, Tom. You're too quick off the mark. That's half your problem. She wants you to say you're sorry—she _needs_ you to. Then after that, when she's calm and this is all out of the way, we'll negotiate a fair settlement for you." Bishop let his shoulders drop in resignation. "It's what you have to do, Tom. Or you'll never get out of this alive. I'll get Brad and Lori to organize a meeting."

Bishop finished his drink, put down the glass and stood up. "Thank you, Denny," he said rather downheartedly. "I suppose what you're saying makes sense."

"Of course it does," Denny replied. He smiled wisely and shook Bishop's hand. "And it's exactly what Brad and Lori were trying to tell you all along. Oh, and Tom—if you ever disparage any of my lawyers like that again, I'll cut your balls off and give them to the pigeons for breakfast." Bishop stared at him, shocked. "Denny Crane."

* BL * BL * BL *

"Mr. Tippett, please. This is Alan Shore," Alan said to the person who answered the phone. "He'll want to talk to me. Thank you." Alan waited as the call was transferred. "Clyde! Alan Shore. This parrot is getting _so_ anxious to find out where it's going to live next. Can you tell me that?" He listened. "I hoped as much. I'll be returning the parrot to you this afternoon, along with all the negatives, when I pick up the reinstatement document. Four o'clock? Sounds perfect. Pleasure doing business with you."

Alan hung up, then very gingerly fingered a bruise near his temple that was still throbbing enough to distract him. He pulled his hand away when he saw Shirley come into the office.

"Alan, are you sure you should be here today?" she asked him, coming around to his side of the desk and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Alan smiled wanly. "Quite sure," he answered.

"I can handle Patricia Harris's appearance for you."

"I'm sure you can. But there are things I need to accomplish today, Shirley, and one of them is being seen in public, unaffected by the evil machinations of Vincent Del Sarto."

"I'm not sure you can pull off _unaffected,"_ Shirley answered, as Alan winced and gently massaged his jaw.

"Nonetheless," Alan answered, dropping his hand to his lap.

Shirley straightened. "Alan, please get to a doctor. As helpful as Brad's friend was last night, I'm worried it just wasn't enough, and you're _clearly_ still unwell."

Alan looked up at Shirley, touched by her concern. "Very well, Shirley. I'll have some time before court. Brad had the right idea, though; I'll see someone I trust who can help without me having to discuss an incident of assault and battery to the police."

Shirley frowned and said nothing.

"Shirley," Alan said in a voice so strong and determined that it took the senior partner by surprise, "Beppe and Teresa want to keep their restaurant. They know what they're up against and they want to fight, and I won't let them face this alone." His grim expression softened. "Sorry." Their eyes met for a moment. Neither of them spoke, but each got the other's message. "I've got to call Beppe and tell him the restaurant can reopen tonight," Alan said. Shirley went back around to the door. "I'll come get you when it's time to go."

* BL * BL * BL *

"I find the laws regarding the use of marijuana in this country very arbitrary," Judge Brown said. "Some states allow it for medical purposes; some states don't allow it at all; and _one_ state—Maryland, as a matter of fact—allows people who have a medical necessity for marijuana to be arrested, but their fines are limited to one hundred dollars. This makes no sense to me. You're either a criminal, or you're _not._ It's shocking. It's _outrageous!"_

His head still pounding, Alan turned slightly away from the rising voice, hoping Brown didn't get excited enough to bang his gavel. He used the opportunity to smile encouragingly at Patricia, who smiled back, glancing worriedly at the new patch of gauze on his temple. Alan ignored the look and tried to concentrate on the judge's words. The tone of Brown's voice was encouraging. But with Brown, that was never really a sign of anything.

"The US Attorney's offices have sent letters to the states that allow the use of marijuana, telling them that it's a Schedule One substance, and that regardless of the law, growing or possessing marijuana is a federal crime. But that doesn't seem to have stopped the states that have already passed laws, from keeping them in place.

"Studies show that marijuana can be useful in helping patients with glaucoma, with cancer, even with post-traumatic stress disorder. It can slow the progression of Alzheimer's, help people with multiple sclerosis, and combat nausea from some of these awful, but necessary, treatments in the interest of preserving human life. And yet, there are criticisms—righteous ones, I might add. It can be misused. Some believe it leads to an increase in the incidents of schizophrenia. It can lead to cancer of its own accord—smoking is bad for your health, no matter _what _you smoke.

"However, Miss Harris has come to us looking to use this substance, legally, for the rest of her life. And her life is going to be much shorter than it should be." He looked at her. "That, my dear, is a very sad thing." Then he returned to addressing the room. "Do I think that in her last few months that she will get even more cancer? Or that she'll become schizophrenic? Or that she will get so addicted in the last few months of her life that she will have been disadvantaged by using it? I do not. But asking her to move out of the state so she can follow their laws, away from the people who care about her, and with the time she has left, is not only _outrageous,"_ he said, aiming his sharp eye at Ginsberg; "it's _cruel._ Therefore, I am ruling that all charges against Miss Harris be dropped, and that she be allowed to use and possess marijuana without legal penalty within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for the remainder of her life. I will draw up the order defining exactly how much and in what form, when I have consulted with her doctors. Mr. Shore, you will get me that information today."

Alan struggled up out of his chair to respond. "I will, Your Honor."

"We are adjourned." _BANG._

Alan clenched his jaw, then turned to Patricia, who was getting up. "You see?" he said with a smile that he forced onto his face, but with a happiness he truly felt. "I promised you."

"You did. Oh, Alan, thank you—thank you so much!" Patricia exclaimed. She reached out to hug him, then stopped when he seemed to flinch at the move. She smiled at his apologetic shrug and turned to Shirley. "Shirley, you were right. Alan _was_ the one to do this.… Thank you. Thank you." She hugged Shirley tightly.

Shirley smiled and accepted the embrace. "You're welcome."

Alan pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "Patricia, this is the phone number of a friend of mine. Call him today and tell him who you are and that I told you to get in touch. I've asked him to take care of you."

Patricia looked at him quizzically but nodded and took the paper. "Thank you, Alan."

Alan nodded, smiled, and grimaced as he reached under the table for his briefcase. As he turned to leave he came face to face with Ginsberg, at whom he smiled, almost smugly, and made a peace sign. "Lip service not necessary," Alan said.

"I'm glad it worked out for her," the ADA answered. "I told you—I did what I had to do."

"Of course you did," Alan replied, in a tone that clearly showed he didn't remotely believe him.

Ginsberg furrowed his brow and studied Alan's face. "What happened to you, anyway? You walk into a wall?"

Alan shot back cheerfully, "Irate husband. You'll be next when your wife finally confesses." Ginsberg shook his head. "By the way, Mr. Ginsberg, if you're looking for something _real_ to crack down on, I suggest having a good look at corruption and buyouts in the Department of Public Health."

Ginsberg looked at him questioningly but didn't reply. Alan nodded, regretted the movement, and walked away.

* BL * BL * BL *

Brad, Lori, and Tom Bishop sat in the conference room across the table from Marion Bishop and her attorney. Tom was fidgeting: adjusting his tie, playing with his watch, scratching his neck. Marion was looking at him, completely still, and completely silent.

"Okay, we've come back," her lawyer said. "I just want you to know that I advised Marion against this, since it was so devastating for her the last time—"

"Marion, I'm sorry," Bishop burst.

Lori and Brad looked at him, surprised at the intensity of his tone. Mrs. Bishop just stared.

"I'm sorry I cheated on you, I'm sorry I humiliated you, and I'm sorry I dragged you along for so long." Bishop looked down at the table, played with his hands. "You deserved better," he admitted sheepishly. "You did."

The room was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, Mrs. Bishop asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Lori watched Bishop as he answered. "I thought about it a lot after we last met here, Marion. I didn't do the right thing. I tried to hold on to everything—you, the money, my reputation. I couldn't figure out how to talk to you about the things that were bothering me, and I couldn't stand being alone. I guess I just thought, if I just kept you there, you know, financially comfortable with me in the same house, that it would all be okay. But it wasn't. And I humiliated you. And I'm sorry."

"I was so angry, Tom," Mrs. Bishop said softly. "You can't imagine how angry I was." Bishop nodded. "But… mostly I was hurt. I wanted things to get better. I _did."_

"And now?" he asked her. She pursed her lips, unsure how to answer. "Marion, I'm sorry. I'm _sorry._" Bishop looked at her pleadingly. "Let's try again."

Mrs. Bishop smiled, a tinge of sadness touching her upturned lips. "I'm sorry, too." She turned to her lawyer. "I don't know what's going to happen in the future. But I know we can't work on anything if he's in jail. I want to drop the charges."

"Marion, are you sure?" her lawyer asked.

"I'm sure," she answered. She turned a brighter face to her estranged husband. "If Tom wants to try, I have to let him try. It's what I've stayed all this time for."

"All right. Well, then, we'll deal with the authorities today, and the two of them can get back to trying to reconcile," the lawyer said. He and Marion stood up. "I'll be in touch."

"Thank you," Lori said as she, Brad and Bishop stood up. She smiled at Marion. "I wish you both all the best."

"Thank you," Marion said.

Tom came around the table to her and took her hands in his. "Marion," he said, "we'll make it work. I'll work hard. I promise."

She smiled, accepted the kiss on the cheek her offered, and departed.

"Well," Brad said, "a happy ending. I'm really happy that you realized what you did wrong, Tom. And I hope you're able to find happiness again."

"I will," Bishop said. "But not with her."

"What?" Lori exclaimed.

"She got what she wanted: to feel good about our situation. I got what I wanted: she dropped the charges. Now I can pursue my own life again—only this time I'll be more careful. And in the meantime, I'll do a better job at protecting my assets. You and Denny were right—sometimes all they want is a little soft talk. I'll be in touch about setting up some trusts."

Brad and Lori remained speechless as he walked out the door.

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan let his mind wander as the car wound through the streets of Dedham heading toward _Bennisimo Italia._ He had turned down Denny's offer to come with him, but had gratefully accepted his friend's offer of a driver. Truth be told, although he was happy to be bringing the Marinos the legal document allowing the restaurant to re-open, he wasn't feeling the best and was beginning to regret having such a busy day. He was still worried about Beppe's insistence on resisting Vincent Del Sarto, and couldn't help wishing that they had listened when he advised them to get out.

On the other hand, Alan considered, he was proud of Beppe and Teresa for not backing down, even in the face of this kind of adversity. Growing up, he'd had a significant lack of principled people in his life. So having people who not only spoke about principles, but lived them, was endearing, and he had to do everything he could to support them. In this frame of mind, he felt confident he had done the right thing by making public appearances today, even though he still felt like he'd been run over by a truck. But he'd kept his promise to Shirley by seeing a medical friend, and though he was now even more sore from all the manhandling, he was satisfied that time would heal any damage. And besides, he thought with a sardonic snort, he'd been beaten up worse than this before. _But you were younger, Alan… much, much younger…._

He had closed his eyes and was thinking about how happy Beppe and Teresa would be when he showed up with their reprieve, and whether to end the night with some strong pain killers or a bottle of scotch, when a ruckus from outside the car brought him back to the present. He opened his eyes and looked out the window, and immediately felt fear grip his gut. They were on the block where _Bennisimo Italia_ was located, but the lower half of the street had been blocked off by a fire truck and police cars. He scanned past the vehicles and tried to see what was happening. When he couldn't make full sense of it, he ordered the driver to stop the car and he got out, practically running toward a police officer who was standing talking to four reporters, whose microphones were shoved under his nose.

"…no information at this time," he was saying.

Alan continued to look wildly down the street. He couldn't see the restaurant clearly; there were too many emergency vehicles in the way. Two fire engines… two police cars… an ambulance…. And flames. Where he expected he should have been going, there were flames, and smoke. _No…_

He turned his attention back to the police officer, who was responding to a question Alan hadn't even heard in his worry. "…cannot discuss reports of people being inside the premises at this time."

"Witnesses say they heard an explosion before the flames appeared through the roof," one of the reporters said.

"I have no information on that at this time," the officer answered. "The Department will do a full investigation into the cause of the fire. Right now, we just want to put the fire out and protect the buildings around it."

Alan looked back down the street, lightheaded and sick to his stomach, and hoped with all his might that what he was thinking was wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

Not mine, never was.

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny bolted down the hall of Crane, Poole and Schmidt, slowing down deliberately when he reached his office. He poured a drink hastily but correctly, grabbed a cigar, then thought better of it and left the Cuban behind before he went onto the balcony.

If Alan heard Denny come out, he didn't show it, so Denny took the opportunity to study his friend. Alan was sitting in his usual spot, a trail of smoke curling up into the air above his head as he held something in his hand, never touching it to his lips. But the pungent aroma of their usual fine cigars wasn't the one that hit Denny; there was a sickly sweet smell instead. Denny wrinkled his nose, shook his head. There was no scotch in Alan's hand, or beside him on the table. And the younger man wasn't moving, just staring into space, lost in his own thoughts, or perhaps not thinking at all.

Denny walked around to his chair, stopped for a second, but getting no greeting or even a glance from Alan, he sat down. Another moment of silence passed. Then Denny said softly, "Shirley called me."

Alan still said nothing, didn't look at Denny, and continued letting the smoke rise into the air. Denny let the quiet stay for a moment, then asked simply, "Scotch?"

"No."

Denny read Alan's mood in the one abrupt, bitten-off word that was spoken without so much as a turn of the head.

"Thank you," followed soon after, equally curt. An afterthought. Still, obviously considered a necessity. Telling Denny the mood wasn't directed at him.

"You're welcome," Denny answered, not offended. He leaned toward his friend. "Alan, you have to know you did everything you—"

Alan's low, emotionless voice interrupted him. "Denny, if you're going to sit here on this balcony, which you have every right to do because it's yours, I'd appreciate it if you'd be silent." Alan still wasn't looking at him, but he moved his hand to take a puff, closing his eyes as he inhaled and then exhaled the smoke.

For once Denny wasn't sure what to say. The grief, and guilt, radiating from Alan was palpable, but he seemed to want no comfort. Denny recognized the self-abuse, a diehard habit of his dearest friend. Something he could never understand, certainly not in people who were deep down so good at heart, like Alan. Liberal though he was, the man's heart could rarely be accused of being in the wrong place. Denny sat back in his chair and shook his head.

The silence continued for a little longer. Then Alan said fairly matter-of-factly, "My head hurts."

Denny glanced over at him but said nothing.

"I mean my _whole _head hurts," Alan continued. "Not just my skull, but my eye sockets, my cheekbones, my jaw, my neck… my ears."

Again, Denny stayed quiet.

"Did you ever have that, Denny, when your head aches _so much_ you'd just like to cut it off with a hacksaw because you know you would have to feel better?" Silence. "Denny?"

Denny looked over to see Alan staring at him expectantly. "Denny, I'm talking to you, why aren't you answering me?"

"You told me to not to talk!" Denny protested.

"Since when do you listen to me?" Alan retorted, irked. Then, more reflectively and, if Denny wasn't mistaken, more bitterly, "Since when does_ anyone_ listen to me."

"Ilisten to you _sometimes,"_ Denny said calmly, "when you're not spouting bleeding heart nonsense." Alan didn't bite. "And—_judges_ listen to you; look what happened today. I hear Patricia Harris can grow pot now for the rest of her life!"

"She can," Alan agreed softly. He lapsed into silence again. Denny sipped his scotch. "It was supposed to be me," Alan said finally, his voice soft, and flat.

Denny looked at his friend, saw a blank, tired face staring out over the balcony wall. He didn't speak.

"When Beppe and Teresa wouldn't listen, I hoped _desperately_ that if I stepped in and took their place, Del Sarto would…" Alan's voice trailed off.

"I wish I had been there with you," Denny said.

"You couldn't have done anything, Denny," Alan replied unhappily. He shook his head, closed his eyes, grimaced a moment in discomfort and then took a long drag on his smoke. "It was a _fait accompli _long before I even got there."

"How long did you stay?"

"I went with Beppe to identify Teresa's body and his niece's body. Then I made sure he got taken to the hospital himself." Alan shook his head. "Burns don't go away with a little ice and a few kind words." Denny watched as he lowered his head and closed his eyes, probably saw something he didn't want to see and opened them again, clearly struggling to stay composed. He watched the smoke rise. "He's done fighting now," Alan added softly.

"Alan, I know what you're thinking—"

"_No, you don't,_ Denny," Alan replied strongly, whipping his head around to fix his friend with a warning look.

Denny accepted the rebuff without anger and silence resumed between them. Soon after, Brad's voice floated in from behind them. "Alan. I just heard. I want you to know… well, I know they were friends of yours. I'm sorry," he said.

Alan stared at the balcony wall. "Thank you."

Brad exchanged knowing looks with Denny, then started to leave.

"Brad," came Alan's voice suddenly.

Brad stopped. "Yeah."

"I apologize for my comments earlier today. I'm… not at my best right now."

Brad again looked to Denny. Denny shrugged when Alan didn't turn around. "It's okay," Brad said.

Alan didn't say anything else and Brad left quietly. Denny picked up the conversation. "You know, you really _do_ need to have a doctor look you over," he said.

"I saw someone, Denny."

"'Someone'? Was this another one of your underground people? I've got a doctor—she's fantastic, and she—"

"I'm fine," Alan repeated, a hint of annoyance touching his voice. _"I'm_ fine."

Denny nodded, understanding the implication. "What's that you're smoking, anyway?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I need to be numb right now, Denny," Alan said, his anger dissipated. "Mentally, physically, emotionally… numb."

"Where did you get it?"

Alan offered a small smile. "I got Patricia Harris in touch with an acquaintance of mine who could get her what she needs; then I availed him of his services myself."

"Do you do that often?" Denny asked, surprised and just a little concerned.

Alan laughed softly. "Not in nearly twenty years; it was just a… spur of the moment thought," he answered. He looked at the joint in his hand critically. "It hasn't been as helpful as I'd hoped," he said.

"No?" Denny said as he watched Alan stub it out in the ashtray.

"No," Alan replied. "Everything still hurts like hell, and…" He stopped speaking. Denny looked at him and was certain he saw eyes filled with tears. Alan looked back out over the city. Then he whispered, "Everything still hurts."

"Wait right here," Denny said. He got up, hurried back inside the office and returned with a second glass of scotch and two cigars. "You need this," he said, handing one of the smokes and the glass to Alan.

"I don't want this tonight, Denny," Alan said, shaking his head as Denny moved in to light the cigar. Nevertheless, he accepted the light.

"You _need_ it," Denny repeated. "You need routine, you need solace. You need Denny Crane."

"I _always_ need you, Denny. I just don't—" He cut himself off. "Having a cigar and a scotch with you is a joy to me. I don't want to connect those _wonderful_ activities to the way I feel right now." Alan took one long gulp of the liquid, gritted his teeth, and put the glass down on the table between them.

"Come on," Denny urged; "stop trying to punish yourself. I know you feel terrible, but you're making it worse by thinking it's all your fault. It's _not."_

"Denny—"

"It's _not_. It was going to happen."

"Beppe and Teresa might have been convinced eventually to give up and move on, Denny, and now that chance is gone."

"It was never there," Denny said. "You and I both know that Beppe and Teresa weren't going to back off, and neither was Del Sarto."

"This _didn't_ have to happen."

"No, it didn't. They could have listened to you and been out of it."

"Denny, I'm not going to blame Beppe and Teresa—"

"No, because it's so much easier to blame _yourself."_ Denny looked Alan straight in the eye when the younger man challenged him with a dangerous look. "Alan," Denny said, his voice softer, more comforting, "you did everything you could to help Beppe and Teresa. You warned them. You begged them. You went in to take a _bullet_ for them." Alan's expression softened but unwillingness remained. "They weren't going to back off. You know it. What you need to do now is accept it."

Denny paused, tried to let his words sink in. Alan just looked at him, something in his eyes begging Denny to help him believe it. "Egotistical sum'bitch you are, anyway," Denny groused gently. "Thinking you had any control over any of this. This was never in your hands; all you could do was try and get them to see reality. They had to make their own decisions. Always did."

"Denny, Teresa was family," Alan said in a broken voice that his friend had never heard before. He turned back to the safety of looking at the city. "I used to go home and go to bed and pray with all my heart that she and Beppe could be my parents." He paused, seemed to physically pull himself together. "This hurts, Denny," he almost whispered. "This… is just… unbearable."

Denny regarded his friend with compassion. "Come 'ere," he said, standing up and gesturing for Alan to do the same.

"I don't want a hug, Denny," Alan said.

"_Come 'ere."_

Alan let out a resigned sigh. "Okay; fine." He put the cigar that he hadn't begun to smoke down next to the glass of scotch that he hadn't touched since the first swallow, stood and faced his friend.

Denny immediately reached out and pulled Alan to himself. In spite of himself, Alan responded, and closed his eyes to the overwhelming, painful feelings this simple act of kindness was releasing within him. "It will get better," Denny promised, feeling his friend shaking in his arms. "You won't think so now, but it will. It always does."

Alan said nothing for a few seconds, then: "Denny, please let go."

"You _need_ this," Denny insisted, still holding on.

"No, Denny, please. You're squeezing too tight. My ribs…"

"_Oh!_ Oh," Denny said, hastily letting go. "Sorry." He patted Alan's shoulder as the younger man soothed his chest with his hand.

The two friends looked at each other in silence. "It will get better," Denny promised again, sincerely.

"It will take a long, long time."

"I'll be with you every day until it does."

"I'll need you, Denny."

Denny opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. "You've got me. Promise."

Alan offered a small smile. "Thank you."

"I won't always listen to you," Denny predicted lightly.

"I wouldn't expect it," Alan admitted.

"Not when you're spouting some liberal mumbo-jumbo or some garbage about how everything is your fault."

"Denny—"

"Like the famine in Africa, or global warming, the war in Afghanistan, or—"

"Denny," Alan said again, loud enough to silence his friend. He looked at him meaningfully. "I'll need you."

"I'll be there."

"I know."


End file.
